Tjanting

Not this.What then ?I started over & over. Not this.Last week I wrote “the muscles in my palm so sore from halving the rump roast I cldbarely grip the pen.” What then ? This morning my lip is blisterd.Of about to within which. Again & again I began. The gray light of day fills theyellow room in a way wch is somber. Not this. Hot grease had spilld on the stove top.Nor that either. Last week I wrote “the muscle at thumb’s root so taut from carvingthat beef I thought it wld cramp.” Not so. What then? Wld I begin? This morning my lipis tender, disfigurd. I sat in an old chair out behind the anise. I cld have gone aboutthis some other way.Wld it be different with a different pen ? Of about to within which what. Poppies grewout of the pile of old broken-up cement. I began again & again. These clouds are not aptto burn off. The yellow room has a sober hue. Each sentence accounts for its place. Notthis. Old chairs in the back yard rotting from winter. Grease on the stove top sizzled &spat. It’s the same, only different. Ammonia’s odor hangs in the air. Not not this.

(Ron Silliman. Tjanting. Great Barrington: The Figures, 1981. 11-12.)